


Epilogue - Boxing Day

by TeaHouseMoon



Series: The Four Days of Christmas [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boxing Day, Christmas, Dry Humping, Fluff, Insecure John, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Rutting, Sherlock takes the initiative, Snogging, They love each other, all the snogging, bed sharing, nuzzling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5540600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Epilogue to The Four Days of Christmas.</p><p>John and Sherlock, in bed. Promises, and sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epilogue - Boxing Day

John shifted on the bed, turned with his head on the pillow. Sunlight was filtering through the curtains – silvery-grey, it was cloudy outside – and he squeezed his eyes shut to block it out. The warmth of a body next to him beckoned, and instinctively he burrowed against it, pushed his face into soft, messy curls. He could smell Sherlock’s scent way before reality seeped into his sleep-muddled brain to remind him that it was him.

They had spent the evening with Mrs Hudson – John still tender after their encounter that afternoon, senses alert, feeling Sherlock’s smell on himself even though he’d taken a shower, hoping he’d left his smell on Sherlock, too, everywhere, like a mark – and then, soft with brandy and gin, they’d gone back up to their flat, silently undressed, retreated to Sherlock’s bedroom without having to say it. John had been buzzing but too tired, too mellow with alcohol and so he’d just accepted a kiss - though a very deep, passionate one – and then fallen asleep with his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, fingers on his throat, thumb over the curve of his lower lip.

Awake, now, he nuzzled into Sherlock’s hair, teased his nape with his mouth and nose. His heart beat fast.

“Christmas is over.” Sherlock’s voice came from within his chest, deep and rough with sleep.

John froze.

“Yes.”

Sherlock cleared his throat; didn't turn over.

“No more traditions. No more bets…no more dares.”

John felt his heart skip a beat, and not in a good way. He knew where Sherlock was headed. His blood very nearly turned to ice.

“No. No – no more of that,” he concurred, clipped, and pulled back to lie on his own pillow. His arm lay limp alongside his own body; he frowned deeply.

So he'd been fooling himself all along: it was just a game to Sherlock, it had never been real to him – just a joke with benefits. And then back to being flatmates, like before, like nothing had happened…

John tensed when Sherlock leant back towards him, and took his hand, placed it on his belly. He blinked, blinked, as Sherlock looked at him intensely. His eyes gleamed dark blue in the shadows of the bedroom.

“Maybe we don't need bets. Maybe we can just… carry on. Without them.”

It took a few moments for the words to register in John’s brain. All the while he stared into Sherlock’s eyes, almost scared, waiting for the punchline of a joke, a laugh. Neither came; and so John allowed himself to smile. Tentatively at first; more broadly when Sherlock smiled back, eyes amused but tender. When Sherlock turned around, belly up and head towards him, John saw that his hands were trembling, too.

John replied by accepting Sherlock’s hand that guided him to lie over his body, in between Sherlock’s open legs, thighs and bellies and chests aligned and John’s weight bearing down on him. He replied by kissing Sherlock, open mouthed and demanding, both his hands clasped around Sherlock’s head and Sherlock’s hands around his, erections sliding against each other through the cotton of their pyjama bottoms.

John wished he could undress them both, was dying to be inside Sherlock, push himself into him, be cradled by his narrow hips and warm, breathtakingly tight body – but he was already so over the edge, mad with desire and relief and excitement that all he could do was thrust hard against Sherlock, rut against him while they kissed so deeply they almost could not breathe.

Sherlock moaned and his hips convulsed as he came, and by then their lungs nearly burned, and so John let his mouth go, allowed him to catch his breath, watched him as Sherlock arched back and cried out his pleasure, eyes closed and body surrendered. It brought him over the edge too: he thrust hard against hips, the warm cradle of his belly – _next time, I'll be in you, I’ll be inside you_ \- smelled the scent of Sherlock’s pleasure – damp, intimate - and then came.

 

 

It took a little to calm their breathing. They were sweaty, but John didn't care; he could not stop smiling as he rubbed his face, playful, on the side of Sherlock’s face, his neck.

“No more dares, you say?”, he murmured, hiding his face under Sherlock’s chin. “I think there's still something that people do, today.”

“Mmm?” Sherlock’s voice was groggy, but curious.

John snickered.

“Boxing Day sales in Oxford Street.”

The rumble of Sherlock’s incredulous, amused laughter was the best sound John had ever heard, and he joined in, happy, heart full, and no intention whatsoever to leave their flat - their bed – for a long time.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much to everyone who's read my story. It was fun writing it! Please, if you enjoyed it, do let me know!
> 
>  
> 
> ps. In case it wasn't clear, John and Sherlock are NOT going to the sales in Oxford Street, because they're hell and nobody in their right mind would leave their couch for that. :) :)


End file.
